


Ghosts

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: Sumhowe
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: "And ghosts must do againWhat gives them pain." ~W.H. Auden





	

And suddenly, he was in the Senate chamber again, aware of nothing but the blood pouring down his face, the inexplicable pain in his thighs, the rain of blows, a confused roaring in his ears. The world was spinning around him, falling apart, and as consciousness faded to a throbbing black, all he could think, was 'I have not done enough. Dear God, don’t let the cause die with me. I have not done enough. I have not done enough.'

The beach seemed to be shrouded in a heavy fog. If there was sun, he did not notice it. If the air was frigid, he did not notice it. If there was any sound but the thunder of the waves and the beating of his heart, he did not notice it. All his attention was absorbed by the bodies, by the hunks of driftwood that could be mistaken for bodies, by the dunes that might be hiding bodies. Somewhere, God knew where, but somewhere the body must be waiting for him. He could not bear to think of his brother, his own dear Horace, even now sinking to the bottom of the bay. He could not bear to think of his body picked apart by the creatures of the deep instead of lying in the ground where his family could pay homage to him. He could barely bear to think of him lying in the ground. The day was interminable. There were so many bodies, so many places left to check. But his brother’s face eluded him; he was nowhere to be found.

He could not let go of his President’s hand. He could not stop himself from weeping, sobbing uncontrollably, bent so low his head was practically on the pillow. It was perhaps the cruelest stroke, this unignorable message to a still divided nation. This man, who had come to symbolize freedom and abolition, who had been so promising for his cherished cause—here he lay, a hole in his head, a bloody mess. Will their rights die thus? He wept for his friend, for his wife and children, for the shock of it, but he could not deny that he wept above all for the uncertainty of the future.

His back was on fire. He was nearly blind with the raging agony of it. Even after, when the fire was out, leaving only a series of open wounds, oozing burns, the pain was so intense he could not focus. Every movement was torture. He could neither stand nor sit nor lie without feeling as though the wound was fresh, was reopening, was consuming him in renewed waves of pain. The doctor offered him ether, but he did not want to risk lessening the success of the treatment, he did not want to go through this even one day more than he had to; he turned the ether away and steeled himself for another round of this hellish ‘treatment’.

It was not the fight itself that kept bringing him back to this bitter memory; it was the knowledge that this, this was the last time he had seen his father. This was how they had parted. Anger and disappointment and disgust were to be the last expressions he could ever recall on his father’s features. And worse, after all that he said that day, his father may well have died thinking his son hated him.

Alice was going to be the death of him. If he did not die of shame over her, then she might resort to using her hands. Here she was, lashing out at him with word and fist, the pure hatred in her eyes hurting more deeply than either. Sympathy was in short supply from the merciless Washington society—but he still had Sam to comfort him, to try to steer him free of her.

Then Sam’s hand was wrenched from his. He was across the desk, red in the face, shouting. And he was standing, raging just as loudly, just as fiercely against Sam. 'Morally insane', 'blinded by prejudice'—how could Sam be so stupid? Didn’t he see what Grant was doing? What this project would put at risk? But he could not convince Sam, and he certainly would not let himself be convinced. Nothing, nothing had ever hurt as deeply as this parting. Nothing had ever felt so final.

They had nominated him anyway. Against all his protestations, in spite of all the times he had stepped down or refused nomination before, they had put his name up anyway. And somehow, he had won. The people, in a way his people, had chosen, and he could not refuse them now. He had a duty to do, and he must do it. Even though it meant leaving all his friends behind, leaving Boston for a city that he hated, leaving his family, the only home he had. Even though it meant abandoning, perhaps forever, whatever was left of his precious freedom and independence. Even though it was a task he had never wanted, had dreaded, had done his best to avoid. He had a duty to do. And no matter the cost, he must do it.

Even through the haze of morphine, he knew that Sam’s face in his doorway was not a dream. His dreams were never so pleasant. But on this occasion, neither was Sam. He had a confused sense of coldness, of friction between them—of an effort made to renew their friendship, an effort failed. He did not know, could not know, for certain, but he thought Sam must be disgusted by him, ashamed of him. It had been one thing, their fierce rage over that political disagreement, but this sense of cold personal revulsion—it would have been better if Sam had not come, if he had never seen him like this.

And then the haze cleared. The lines on Sam’s face vanished, he was in that beautiful blue coat again, hand in hand with Julia before the altar, binding himself irrevocably to a life he would despise and a woman he could not truly respect. 

And she was there, condemning him for all the world to hear. And Sam just sat there, looking on in silent approval. 

The rock had come from nowhere. As he crashed to the ground, stunned by the impact, he lost awareness of everything but the intense pain where it had struck. He could feel the legs, the feet, flailing around him, could feel all the places where the bruises would be. He struggled to stay in this moment, to hold on as long as he could. Just a moment more, and Sam’s hand would be on his shoulder, that endearing look of concern shining down on him for the first time. If he could cling to this, they would have so many sweet hours together, a lifetime—but then the bruise from the rock shifted, multiplied, and he could feel the heavy head of the cane raining down on him again, and the Senate chamber swam before him as the blood poured down his face.


End file.
